


As Our World Caves In

by krakenhouse



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Fluff, Drarry, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Love/Hate, M/M, Male Slash, Quidditch, Sectumsempra (Harry Potter), Sectumsempra Scars (Harry Potter), Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, post war (harry potter), pov switching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25623343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krakenhouse/pseuds/krakenhouse
Summary: It would be an understatement to say that, when they are summoned back to Hogwarts to complete their schooling in the aftermath of the war, Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are both total wrecks. Both blaming themselves for things that could have gone differently, and both searching for a place to get out of their own heads, they find themselves in the same makeshift dormitory where years of hatred and bias make tensions run high.  But leftover guilt from the war that calls Harry's honor into question, as well as Draco's pride, might prove to be more magnetic between them than it is divisive.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. The Dim Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All work belongs to J.K. Rowling as much as I hate to admit it (*cough*, TERF) 
> 
> Content warning for suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, graphic descriptions, sexual content, and language.

Harry hadn’t stopped shaking all summer. Though he knew there was nothing to be afraid of, and that everything was okay now, there was an emptiness he couldn’t get rid of. There was nothing to concentrate on but his thoughts and memories of the war. There were no Dursleys to go back to this year, and for once, Harry mourned the loss of his petulant relatives as a distraction. In the absence of Number 4, Privet Drive, Harry settled on moving into Sirius’ old bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place. He tried his best to leave everything exactly as it was in the room: the walls had been untouched, but Sirius’ school books, which sat in a stack by the window, had been flipped through every once in a while in lieu of anything else to do. Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys had elected to settle in the rest of the bedrooms of the old Black family house as well, saying that they preferred to all be together, but Harry knew better. They were all worried about what would happen if he was left alone.

The absence of Fred hung over the house like a dark cloud, stifling every laugh that dared to echo through the halls. George tried his best to remind everyone that what Fred would have wanted most is for them to laugh and be happy, reflecting on his memory, but it was obvious he was aching even more than his mother was. Mrs. Weasley didn’t speak. It was lucky to get a pat on the shoulder and a half-hearted smile as Harry passed by on the way to the kitchen. Even Ron and Hermione were different. When Ron wasn’t locked up in his room, he was holed up on the drawing room sofa with Hermione, snogging and cuddling and doing hell knows what else. Harry was happy for them, sure, but he couldn’t deny that it did make him a bit lonely.

When Hermione wasn’t with Ron, she was perched at the bench by the ancient typewriter that had once belonged to Andromeda Tonks. She wanted to pursue a ministry job as soon as she could, and she figured the best way to get her name out there was to write a memoir. Harry had assured her that the wizarding world would undoubtedly know her name whether she wrote a memoir or not, but Hermione was insistent.

Presently, Harry sighs and pulls himself from the creaky old mattress. 9:37. It’s time for breakfast. The table in the kitchen is emptier than usual. With the arrival of mid-August, Charlie had again left for Egypt and Arthur began to take more regular shifts at the ministry. Ron sits next to George, both of them staring down at the table blankly.

“Hey,” Harry says, a note of annoyance in his voice. The only time he had felt this detached from Ron was at the beginning of his fourth year at Hogwarts. He always felt guilty for feeling this way, because he knew that Ron had all the right to grieve. But it was beginning to feel as if he was living in Hermione’s all-encompassing shadow when it came to him. And the truth was, he missed his company. Ron looks up.

“Hey. You’ve got some mail, we all have, actually.” Ron gives Harry a look he can’t exactly decipher. Hermione strides into the kitchen to set the kettle on the stove, and Ron’s eyes drift up to meet hers.

“From who?” Harry asks. Sure, he wasn’t a stranger to being sent mail. But a few weeks ago he had gone into a fit of rage when the inquiries from newspapers and letters from well-wishers were piling in by the thousands, and he had requested Mrs. Weasley just throw them all away as they came in. His life had been blissfully mail-free, until now.

“You’ll see.”

“I want to know who it’s from, Ron, why can’t you just tell me?” Harry snaps.

“Oh, just open it, Harry,” Hermione pleads, sliding the sealed letter down the table towards him. She seemed to be the only one who picked up on the tension between the two recently, and she glances nervously between them. Harry picks up the letter from the table, sitting down and grabbing a slice of toast. The letter, heavy and thick, has the Hogwarts seal on the back. His stomach flips over.

“What’s this?” Harry asks, looking up incredulously at Hermione. She shifts uncomfortably.

“Ron and I got one too.”

“What?”

“Please, Harry, just read it.” Harry pulled the sheet of parchment slowly out of the envelope.

_Dear Mr. Potter, Due to the events of last year, you have not completed your required schooling to be considered an adequately educated member of the magical community. You will be accompanied by your classmates to King’s Cross Station this September First in order to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to complete your education and your N.E.W.T. exams necessary for graduation._

_Professor Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

Harry looked up. He was met with nothing but worried glances from his friends and the realization that they both looked much too old, much too broken to be receiving a letter like this.

_______________________________________________________________

Draco Malfoy hadn’t stopped shaking all summer. He passed it off as nerves following the war, unwilling to recognize that it was much more than that. His father was shipped off to Azkaban in a matter of days following the Battle of Hogwarts, in a violent, bloody affair that ended with Lucius cuffed and sedated, and Narcissa on the floor, in tears. She took her own life days later. And, as it always had been, Draco was alone.

Every so often, Draco runs his hand over the ridged scars scattered over his chest and arms. He contemplates taking a knife and opening them again, letting himself bleed out all over the silk sheets from his mother’s room he’d been sleeping on. He was desperately trying to envelop himself in her scent, it was all he had left of her.

He got the letter mid-August, and he threw it away promptly. There was no way he would be going back to that wretched school, drenched in the remnants of war and death, of promises he was forced to keep and the evils he was forced to carry out. But endless days in the manor, with no company but the house elves, was proving to be very depressing indeed.

Draco tried so hard, with his eyes squeezed shut and his fingers plugging his ears, to stop hearing the screams of Voldemort’s captives that had carried up from the cellar what seemed like years ago. But Draco can’t stop hearing them, he can’t stop himself from thinking that they all sound like his mother’s voice. And sometimes, Draco cries. He cries and he screams and punches the taffeta-papered walls, destroys the perfect house his father kept, making it look as broken as it felt. Of course, Draco didn’t allow himself to believe that he was crying. No, Draco didn’t cry. He felt. And he was allowed to feel as much as he wanted to, for Merlin’s sake.

He watched another green sofa cushion reduce to ashes in the fire, and took a deep breath.

_______________________________________________________________

“I don’t know about you, but I’m going.” Hermione’s voice was hushed, quiet. Ron was shut up in his room again, and Harry and Hermione sat cross-legged on the drawing room floor. Hermione looked up from her book at Harry, who was watching this morning’s edition of The Daily Prophet burn in midair.

“I’ll go.” Harry said finally, sending the newspaper flying into the fireplace with a sizzle.

“You will?” Hermione sounded oddly enthusiastic. Harry glanced over at her, eyebrows raised. “I just think it’s a good idea! You need to get your N.E.W.T.s over with, start on a career-”

“I need to get out of this house.” Harry said shortly, cutting Hermione off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her face fall.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione’s voice was laced with pity. The dim orange light from the fire glinted off of her features harshly, making her look much more tired, much older.

“I don’t need pity, Hermione, and I don’t need more education either. I just need a distraction and neither you nor Ron are doing a good job of that so Hogwarts seems to be my only option.” Harry snapped, regretting the words as they left his mouth.

“Harry, I-”

“No, I’m...sorry, I shouldn’t have said- just forget it,” He stood, shoving his wand in his pocket and striding towards the drawing room door. “‘Night, Hermione,” he said, closing the door behind him and beginning to ascend the stairs towards Sirius’ old bedroom. Harry already knew he wouldn’t get much sleep. With the guilt of snapping at Hermione on top of everything else, Harry prepared himself to stare at the ceiling of Sirius’ childhood prison until morning peeked in through the dusty drapes.

This house was starting to feel like a prison to Harry as well, he realized. Everything was too quiet, too false. It was foolish, but he guessed that a part of him had expected the aftermath of the war to be golden, full of laughter and relief. He’d hoped he would find pieces of himself in the fallout, pieces that had been ignored. But it was all empty, all of it. He couldn’t help but blame himself for Fred, and Tonks and Lupin, and plenty of other people he allowed to die for his sake. The guilt was almost too much to bear, and imagining Ron’s conflicted face and Hermione’s rueful eyes if he were to tell them this only made it worse.

In truth, Harry didn’t quite think he deserved to be alive at all. He had given himself up, he should have died for the cause like his friends did. It wasn’t right. He finally fell asleep as the sun was just peeking over the trees outside, with the selfish wish to never wake up deeply lodged in his mind.

When he did wake up, it was three in the afternoon and there was a cold cup of coffee on his nightstand, probably Hermione’s form of a peace offering. He sighed and picked it up off the table, intent on carrying it down to the kitchen, until he heard voices coming from the landing. Ron and Hermione, fighting, again. It seemed as if the only thing anyone ever did was cry, fight, or snog each other. He decided it was better that he stayed upstairs until it died down. If Hermione saw his untouched coffee cup on its way to the kitchen to be emptied and cleaned, she would most likely become even more hysterical than she already was, complaining about how Harry never touched any of the food or drink they offered him these days, and that he’d wither away if he didn’t start eating again.

So Harry retreated from the doorway, pausing to look at himself in the dusty old mirror that leant up against the armoire. Maybe Hermione is right, he thought, looking at his thin arms and the way he could practically see the outline of his rib cage even through the loose-fitting gray t-shirt he hadn’t taken off in about a week. He figured that it didn’t matter, that he’d eat something tomorrow.

With a flick of his wand, Harry’s old school trunk flung itself out from underneath the four-poster bed and landed itself on the mattress with a dull thunk. Another flick, and the lid flew open. Harry was sickeningly reminded of the only three wizards who ever helped him pack for Hogwarts. Fred and George Weasley, in his second year, when they recklessly ripped a set of bars from his window, and Nymphadora Tonks in his fifth year, when he was rescued by the Order. He was sickeningly reminded of the fact that two of those people were now dead. And it was his fault, and his alone.

Too caught up in his thoughts, Harry didn’t hear the soft knock on his bedroom door, followed by Ron pushing it open hesitantly.

“You alright there, mate?” Harry didn’t look up from the trunk at Ron’s voice, now that he was uncomfortably aware of the wetness on his cheeks.

“I’m...I’m, yeah, I’m alright.” Harry hastily bent to tie his shoe so that he could discreetly brush the tears away from his face. Ron crouched down next to him.

“You can talk to me, mate. Me and ‘Mione are really worried about you,” he said. Harry didn’t respond. “She reckons it’s just...the war, you know, but I think it’s something else, what’s wrong?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

“I can’t get them out of my head,” Harry carded his hands through his unruly black hair as he sunk onto the floorboards.

“Who?” Ron knew very well who.

“Tonks. Remus. Sirius. _Fred_. It’s my fault, Ron, and nobody gets that, you’re all treating me like I’m delicate or like I’m a wounded fucking hero.” Harry's eyes burned. Ron sighed.

“I hate to sound like a prat,” Ron began, tactfully, “But that’s bloody mental. We didn’t just fight for you. Yeah, we didn’t want to see you dead-” Harry laughed. It was humorless, more of a sad scoff. “-but the war had always been about more than just you, Harry. You...Voldemort would’ve been a threat whether you lived or died. We fought for us. Our families. If Fred didn’t want to fight he wouldn’t have been there, and you know that. Same with Tonks, same with Lupin, same with Sirius. This isn’t about you, mate.”

Harry took a deep breath. Somewhere, a part of him knew he was right. But the feeling of hatred for himself and what Harry Potter symbolized- hundreds of deaths- was too deep embedded in him to falter. “I thought I was going to repay everyone,” his voice broke, “I thought I was going to end all this debt by letting him kill me. It’s what I wanted. But I’m not dead, Ron, I got a second chance. Where are Tonks and Remus’ second chances then? And Fred’s? They had lives outside of all of this, purposes, stuff to live for, and what have I got? Articles in the Prophet? A bloody fan club?” Harry chanced a look over at Ron. His brows were furrowed, that dreaded look of pity and confusion playing across his blunt features.

Frustrated, and tired of explaining himself, Harry stood and gave his trunk an angry rap with his wand. His robes, books and various other items flew haphazardly into it, crumpled and disorganized.

“It should’ve been me, is all I’m saying, Ron.”

____________________________________________________________

It was a dreary Saturday at Malfoy Manor when Draco got a letter from Blaise. Or maybe it was a Tuesday. Draco had lost track of the days since his mother died. He thought that surely it was August, considering that he had received his Hogwarts letter quite recently, but it also could’ve been September. Maybe he had missed the train, and he wouldn’t have to go back ever again. Surely he could get along just fine without his N.E.W.T.s, he had always been second in his year (second to Granger, nauseatingly), but considering that no one would hire a Malfoy boy, he’d simply have to survive here until the money ran out. He figured at best he’d have a comfortable fifteen years, but the thought disgusted him.

Blue-tinged light streamed into the dark kitchen from the break in the curtains where one had been pushed aside slightly by a bustling house elf. Draco roughly cast the drapes back closed as he made his way into the room to fill the kettle with cold tap water and place it on the stove, despite the house elves’ muttering in displeasure. He had decided that if he was to stay here for a while, he’d best learn how to do something besides burn various objects around the manor that reminded him of his past. Tea seemed like a good place to start. His gray silk pajamas he had lived and slept in for many, many days and nights were beginning to lose their sheen. If only Potter could see him now, Draco thought with a slight simpering smile. He decided he’d rather not think about Potter, as the thought of the Boy Wonder ripped Draco’s mind in two with what he assured himself was nothing more than hatred and spite. However, somewhere deep, somewhere untouchable- he knew it was guilt.

He stirred sugar into his tea, jumping slightly at the sharp sound of an owl’s beak on the covered window. The kitchen was bathed in light once more as he tugged the drapes open, lifting the window pane to grasp from an unfamiliar horned owl’s beak a satiny red envelope. He recognized it as the Zabini house stationery. Distracted, he shooed the owl away and languidly pulled the curtains shut again. It did surprise him that the high-and-mighty, venerable, ‘I fought on the right side of the war’ Blaise Zabini would have any interest in a correspondence with Draco, but he removed the wax seal indifferently all the same. Draco found Blaise’s newfound sense of superiority very unpalatable. He’d always been neutral, impartial, towards all things political and war-related. His mother had been one of the very few who hadn’t fallen prey to Voldemort’s promises of power and glory the first time around, and as a result Blaise didn’t find much allure in the Death Eater lifestyle either. But being unfazed by the seduction of dark magic and uncorrupted by familial ties was much different from choosing the side of “good”. Which, as Draco recalled, was never his plan. Not until Ginny Weasley became a factor. He had no idea what Blaise saw in her. Quite honestly, it was traitorous.

 _Dear Draco_ , the letter read, _I hope you’re doing well. I heard the news about your mother; I send my condolences. I hope you’ll find it in you to make it to King’s Cross on September First. Keep in mind this isn’t a request or a plea. I’ll be apparating to the manor at precisely 9:30 am on said date if I don’t receive a return owl before then._

_Best wishes._

_Blaise_

Draco gave a sharp, cold laugh that rang through the empty halls of the manor. Who did Blaise think he was, sending him a letter nothing short of a petty threat? And for what? Surely Blaise didn’t truly believe that there was any point going back to that wreck of a school, surely there wasn’t so much they had missed that it required another entire year of torturous glares from his peers, echoing calls of “That’s Draco Malfoy, he’s a Death Eater, he’s a murderer…”

Draco threw a glass across the room with a shout of anger, loud enough to rattle the walls. It shattered into thousands of miniscule crystals, and he didn’t bother to pick up the pieces.


	2. Returning

Mrs. Weasley was getting better, Harry noticed. It wasn’t a rare occurrence to hear her humming quietly a Celestina Warbeck melody as she trundled up and down the stairs, a feather duster in her hand. Cleaning had always seemed to be somewhat therapeutic for her, and she was finally getting around to doing some. Harry had helped her pick out a new fabric for the armchairs in the drawing room (‘It is your house, after all, dear’), repair a toilet on the fourth floor that hiccoughed constantly, and had even shown her how to use the vacuum Hermione had bought. That night had been a particularly restless one, seeing as when Mr. Weasley returned from work and saw her using it, he elected to sit and watch it run for hours into the night. 

But yet, there was still a low hanging cloud of unease about the house, brought about by the promise of change in the coming days. Molly and Arthur had made the decision to move out of 12 Grimmauld Place once the Hogwarts term started, and back into the Burrow. 

“I think she’s bloody nervous about it, mind you,” Ron retorted to Hermione. The three of them were camped out in the drawing room again: Ron and Hermione chatting, Harry staring into the fire. It was August thirty-first. 

“Oh, I know, Ronald. But she didn’t have to act like I  _ wanted _ her to leave!” Hermione had been particularly sensitive about what Mrs. Weasley thought of her recently, and as Mrs. Weasley had been particularly sensitive in general, it wasn’t too great of a pairing. Hermione had maybe been a bit too enthusiastic about Molly’s moving back into the Burrow that afternoon, and she hadn’t taken it as well as Hermione had hoped.

“I don’t think she meant it like that, ‘Mione,” Ron sighed. “She’s just worried that moving back home will remind her of...you know.” 

“I know.” 

The ambience of the crackling fire dominated the room once more, and Harry felt suddenly aware of the dull piercing of both of his friends’ gazes in his back. Not wanting to talk about whatever Hermione was undoubtedly about to bring up, Harry cleared his throat. “So how’re we getting to King’s Cross tomorrow, then?”

“Oh, er…” Hermione sounded surprised. “I was just thinking the underground, does that work for you, Ron?” 

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but Harry interrupted. “Too conspicuous.”

“Harry, you know we don’t have to hide anymore-” Hermione’s voice sounded sickly sweet and pitiful. It grated against Harry’s ears.

“Of course I know that, Hermione.” Harry seethed. The pity thing was swiftly going to drive him insane. “I’d rather not be assaulted by reporters, is all, thanks.” 

“We’ll just take a ministry car. Does that _ work _ for you?” Ron said, his voice low and irritated. Harry knew it was only for Hermione’s sake, to defend his girlfriend, but part of him wished that people, Ron and otherwise, would call him out on his shit more often. Regardless of whether or not he had offended their girlfriend. 

“Yeah. That’s great.” He stood, becoming tired again of their worried stares and, seeing as he’d caught a glimpse of Ron’s hand settling on the inside of Hermione’s thigh, assuming they’d much rather be alone. “Goodnight.”

The ministry car arrived at number 12 at ten the next morning. Harry, Ron, and Hermione dragged their trunks down three flights of stairs to meet Arthur, Molly, and George in the dark hallway. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s belongings were scattered in organized piles against the walls, ready to be apparated back to the Burrow. 

“Are you sure you’ll be alright taking all of this back, just the three of you?” Hermione greeted Mrs. Weasley with a hug, brows knitted with worry. 

“Oh, of course, dear. We’ll take several trips.” Mrs. Weasley smiled fondly at Hermione, brushing her hair back. Their misunderstanding from yesterday, it seemed, had been forgotten. 

“Don’t cause too much trouble there, Harry,” George approached him from behind, offering up a halfhearted smile. “If I hear about anything too wild...ah, well. Then again, that’s unlikely,” George gestured sardonically at the scarred mass of skin where his ear had been. Harry gave him a smile in reply, a real genuine one. Possibly the first of a few weeks. George’s smile softened. 

“Ah, what the hell,” he said, and with a sweeping of long, gangly arms, he pulled Harry into a tight embrace. “I never thanked you, for everything.” He pulled away, and that look of pity, the one Harry dreaded, made its home in his eyes. But it was mixed with something else, true gratitude, which felt so wrong to Harry that he had to look away, down at his feet. 

“Oh, er- um, I...no problem.”

“Alright kids, time to go,” Arthur swung open the front door, grasping onto the handle of Hermione’s trunk and beginning to lug it down the front steps. 

“Are you coming, Dad?” Ron asked, following suit with his own trunk and lifting it into the back of the sleek black ministry car. Harry shoved his trunk on top of Ron and Hermione’s. He tried to block out how strange it felt that Hedwig’s cage wasn’t being strapped down with them.

“Ah, not this time, . I’m going to start taking things back home,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets and admiring his work- all three trunks were secured in the boot of the car. 

“You too, Mrs. Weasley?” Harry asked as she approached the car. 

“Oh no, I’m coming with you, dear. I want to see my Ginny,” A little glimmer of happiness shone in her eyes as she spoke of her daughter. Ginny had dealt with the aftermath of the war quite differently from the others-- in the form of a month-long holiday to Germany with Blaise Zabini. Of course, to her mother, she was vacationing with Luna Lovegood and Parvati Patil. Ginny had decided (quite rightly so, Harry thought,) that Molly didn’t need any more heart attacks this year. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all piled into the backseat of the car, with Mrs. Weasley in the front. With an ache, Harry noticed that for once the car didn’t need to be magically extended to accommodate all of them. It was an odd feeling, and one that Harry tried to ignore. 

They arrived at King’s Cross Station at precisely 10:45, and with little difficulty managed to get all of their luggage out of the car and to the barrier between platforms nine and ten by 10:50. Hermione and Mrs. Weasley, who were busy continuing a conversation they’d begun in the car over the best colors to repaint various rooms in the Burrow (“Yes, I do think yellow would brighten up the place a bit, and it would go with those cushions you have on the chairs in the kitchen…”) strode through the barrier first, leaving Harry and Ron straggling a few meters behind. 

“You ready, mate?” Ron brought his trolley to a stop and glanced over at Harry. Harry turned and was grateful to see that his eyes didn’t look pitiful or sad, just slightly apprehensive. 

Harry snorted, a humorless expulsion of breath. “Not particularly,” he said, truthfully. 

“Yeah. Me either.” They exchanged a look again, and a thousand unsaid words passed between them. Suddenly Harry felt extremely stupid, as he had spent the last few weeks idiotically wallowing in the idea that he was the only one dreading the return to the castle. Ron had lost family in this war, and that was a pain that Harry would never be able to understand. Ron raised his eyebrows and jutted his head towards the barrier, and with a nod from Harry they both ran towards it with their trunks, as if they were eleven again. 

______________________________________________________________________________

Not wanting to face the humiliation of being babysat by Blaise Zabini and his most recent red-haired dalliance, Draco had sent a seething reply letter a week before September first to assure him that yes, he would be returning, and if Blaise wanted his head to remain attached to his shoulders, he would refrain from  _ ever _ threatening him again. Truth be told, Hogwarts Castle wasn’t the last place on earth Draco wanted to be right now. It was second-to-last, only to Malfoy Manor. And on the night of August thirty-first, as Draco pulled his old school trunk out of his closet, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of relief at the prospect of finally getting to leave the dim, gray building that screamed out to him in the night and held him hostage at all hours of the day. 

All semblance of relief that he had felt the night before was long gone as Draco stood outside the manor at 10:47 the next morning. He just felt sick. The gravel felt as unnatural under his feet as his freshly pressed clothes and polished shoes felt on his body. Out here, in the grey morning light, he was just a shell of someone who used to be someone’s son. Someone who looked just a bit too much like someone who was once a traitor. Someone who was once a murderer. And Draco knew that in the eyes of hundreds of war-altered Hogwarts students, just that resemblance would be condemnation enough. The shirt he wore was just slightly too small, and with a tightening of his jaw Draco yanked down the black sleeve to cover the end of the Dark Mark peeking out from underneath it. Just looking at the hideous thing made the edges of Draco’s vision go dark. Nonetheless, he entertained the idea of leaving it uncovered, to coax their whispers and gasps until the Hero Potter and his valiant friends took notice and might finally decide to finish him off. 

Checking his watch and realizing that 10:50 had come and passed, escaping his notice, Draco sighed and grasped the straps of his trunk in one hand. He closed his eyes and set his shoulders, and willed himself to think clearly of Platform 9 ¾ . 

With a crack, Draco was suddenly- unpleasantly- not alone. The drone of a steadily warming steam engine muffled the sounds of hundreds of voices, and Draco searched the accompanying faces for anyone familiar. The claustrophobia of it all closed in on him. Among the running children and the friends greeting and embracing each other, Draco was very out of place. 

“Glad you decided to show up,” a familiar voice drawled from behind him. Draco didn’t need to turn to know it was Blaise. “I was just about to have to come retrieve you.” The condescension in his voice made Draco’s blood boil. He whipped around to face him. 

“Where’s your Weasley girlfriend, Blaise?” Draco sneered as Blaise took in his appearance. He cocked one eyebrow, unimpressed. 

“With her family. You really couldn’t be bothered to do anything with your hair, Malfoy? You have changed.” 

Draco’s eyes slanted and rolled away from Blaise’s, but he said nothing. Realizing he wasn’t going to get much of a response out of him, Blaise strode past, clapping him brusquely on the shoulder with one hand. 

“I’m going to find Ginny. Don’t do anything too stupid, Draco.” 

Draco snorted humorlessly but it was unheard by Blaise, who was already too far away. Draco watched him as he went, gliding confidently towards where Ginny Weasley stood, but stopping just short of her and her family, apparently to wait his turn as she spoke animatedly to her mother. This amused Draco; he wondered if Blaise would ever be accepted into their tight-knit little family of do-gooders. 

His eyes wandered just past the Weasley girl and her mother to where, unsurprisingly, the holy trinity stood in their mismatched little circle. They talked conspiratorially as if, somehow, they’d already found yet another mystery to solve. Seven years of it and Draco still couldn’t wrap his mind around how the three of them always managed to look so impossibly pretentious at all hours of the day. Still standing glued to the platform, Draco continued to entertain himself with all sorts of nasty thoughts about Potter, Weasley, and Granger. It was a comforting practice to indulge in when the alternative was to allow the mere presence of them to incite torrents of guilt to invade his mind. 

It wasn’t until Potter happened to glance his way and meet his eyes that Draco realized that the train was calling out for final boarding. Potter gave him an unreadable look that bordered on surprise before Draco’s gaze darted away and he hastily picked up his trunk and began to push his way through the crowd towards an entrance to one of the train cars. 

__________________________________________________________

“Did you see that?” Harry asked, craning his neck to see past the crowds of people pushing to board the train. The whistle was blowing, calling for final boarding, and Hermione pressed lightly on his shoulder to get him to move forward. 

“See what, Harry?” she asked, turning to grasp Ron’s hand as they pushed their way to where Mrs. Weasley stood by the train car door, arms outstretched to help them lift their luggage up over the steps. 

“Malfoy’s here.” Harry stated. Ron and Hermione exchanged a look. 

“Well, of course he is, he hasn’t finished his N.E.W.T.s either, has he?” Hermione said thoughtfully, turning to give Mrs. Weasley one last hug. She was right, Harry guessed, but the idea of someone with that kind of past, with that kind of _mark_ , getting to walk around the place where so many lives were lost made his blood run cold.

“Goodbye, dears,” Mrs. Weasley beamed at them, licking her finger and reaching up to wipe a smudge from under Ron’s eye. He groaned and pushed her hand away lightly. “Stay safe, write often!” 

“Yeah, Mum, we will,” Ron grimaced, swiping at his face where she had rubbed it. Still, he leaned in to embrace her one last time before helping Hermione hoist up the last of her bags. 

When Harry was the last one on the platform, Mrs. Weasley grasped both of his hands in her own, looking up at him warmly. Discomfort pooled in Harry’s stomach. He didn’t think he deserved to be treated like one of her sons, not when his very existence had caused the death of one not four months earlier. She seemed to be at a loss for words, so she simply pulled him into a tight embrace. When they separated, the tears brimming in her eyes glinted in the bright sunlight. 

“Do take care of yourself, Harry.” She squeezed his arm once, then laughed good-naturedly, swatting him as if to tell him to hurry up and get on the train. 

“Goodbye, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry smiled from the top of the shallow flight of stairs. “Give Mr. Weasley my best.” 

“Of course, dear.” She smiled back at him, and even for all its warmth Harry felt that it was far from deserved. And with that, the crimson train began to sputter to life and move away from the platform, carrying Harry to Hogwarts for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! i've been writing this fic on and off for about a year now, and it's been just sitting in my google docs, a glorious 15k words and counting, just waiting to be published, and I'm finally doing it! It's still not done, but I'm hoping you enjoy this journey all the same. I'll be posting chapters way in advance so there never really should be much of a wait before the next one. 
> 
> -kh :)


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